


a language of flowers

by SouthernBird



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: Date night?, Dessert & Sweets, Flowers, Fluff and Mush, Language of Flowers, M/M, Prompt: Sugar, Prompt: flowers, Reference to Classical Musical, References to 80s Rock Bands, Sweet, X is Just Eclectic, XZero Week 2021, Zero is a Himbo I Think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: [XZero Week 2021]-Zero, however, wonders if he missed the database that contained the files that specified he was supposed to have some admonishment at being, as the humans (and Axl) say, ‘whipped.’
Relationships: X & Zero, X/Zero (Rockman)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	a language of flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Final prompt for XZero Week 2021! This one is quite, a, hopefully cavity inducing sweet. Also, please forgive the title; my brain is not forming clear thoughts right now, oops. 
> 
> Prompts: Flowers/Sugar

A buzz of city life lazes between the curbsides and alleys of the city, creating an ambiance that would be lovely to an urban romantic but he is hardly one to allow himself such frivolities. Of course, there comes a time when one’s affections far outweigh the hushed whispers and side glances of judgement when as he swaggers right into the local florist shop. Perhaps it comes with the lack of care for the outer entities that lie about his perimeter scans; then again, he is a well-detailed Maverick Hunter, not a stranger to the citizens of Abel City. 

Zero, however, wonders if he missed the database that contained the files that specified he was supposed to have some admonishment at being, as the humans (and Axl) say, ‘whipped.’ 

The premise is exceedingly simple though: Zero has been involved in a relationship with X for the better part of three decades, bearing the stresses of wars and revolutions as well any war-crafted android could throughout the more mellifluous affair. Conflict might be far more his forte compared to his partners more, ah, romantic whims, yet he strives each day to present some knowledge of the archaic courting trivialities—hand holding, fond embraces, all the simpering tender wiles that come with the package, all beautifully wrapped in floral paper and chiffon ribbon. 

The fantasy sounds idyllic to some; dates along the shorelines, excursions to little nooks of cafes and bistros mottled about the city, and even the occasional movie experience. No one ever presumes to think about the darker shades that linger in the hollows of their joints, the battle-worn demons that open their boneless maws when the precipice of peace might just be obtainable. 

Relationships, Zero has come to realize through the grueling trials that have begrudged him so, are sometimes just trying to be good the person who is good to him. While there is no joy found in receiving gifts that are so temporary as the kinds as he will retrieve on his passage back to Headquarters, there is nothing far more beautiful to observe than when X’s lips curve into a grin so wide, his dimples show. By some chance of fate the red Hunter might have been formed with the fancies of a poet ingrained in his data, he might have strum a sonnet of how that smile would dim the sun’s most golden of afternoon shines. 

Zero scoffs, and thanks whomever the bastard is that shrills in his nightmares that he did not curse him _that_ much. 

Nevertheless, thus begins a ritual strange to those that know him and those that think they do: Zero always ends evening patrol at 1900 hours sharp and always proceeds heads south through the quaint district in Uptown. Blum Heights, named after the governor who granted the late Dr. Cain his first government contract, is, as X would most certainly determine, cozy. Colored awnings frame the waning plums of twilight while the last singsongs of birds whistle from their perches. Humans and reploids bustle about in a harmony of good will, kindly chatting some offhanded conversation before all proceeding on to their final destinations. 

According to the Blue Bomber some years back when they first stepped through during a recon mission, “Adam’s” unique quaintness is evident all throughout the neighborhood, but that hardly means an ounce of iron to Zero. It just so happens to be on the way back with nary an impediment that would prohibit him from visiting with X before curfews rouse the Hunters into their barracks. 

What comes more from these weekly outings is a muted setting to think more upon the vibrancy that X has brought into the world as opposed to some old stuffy politician Zero had no desire to every meet the acquaintance of. After all, his lover is nothing less of a quandary, an amalgamation of strange personality traits and hobbies that make him all a rare treasure cultivated from the soils of a cruel, cruel world. Truly, X shines, resplendent in manners most subliminal, even with time stolen away with him is nothing short of whiplash. 

As his ocean-deep optics scan across the tables and shelves of glorious flowers—taking close note of the favored pots overflowing with geraniums and carnations—the evidence of X’s range sparks within his servers, drawing forth memories of just how he _lives._ One moment, X could be belting out to ancient riffs along an air guitar while his boot taps, taps, taps to the rapid rhythm while he professes in tune that he has been shook all night long or later something peculiar about tall drinks of water and sweet cherry pie. It never fails whenever the rigged record player crackles to life, X morphs into some near primal thing which is a far cry from the epitome of model citizen and dutiful soldier. 

On the next, X could be chewing at his bottom lip while silently fighting back the tears while watching another of his favorite vintage hologram films, inquiring timidly to the other Hunter in concerns to Elizabeth’s inability to admit she is in love. Zero can never answer, not on these precocious dramatics; that does not mean he refuses to answer the more emotive android as experience has taught him to gently take X’s hand to kiss along the knuckles during the more dire upheavals of his emotional circuits. 

It is naught but progress, a bellowing gap from perfection, that has built them piece by piece to lead them to this precipice. The expanse below is every shifting, catalyzing with each day’s pass into a crazed state that begs the question of what could wrought itself into fruition if left unwatched. There is nowhere to go as they teeter together but they can accept the fall into the magentas of space dust while hope clings to their backs that they never hit solid ground. 

“Are you _ever_ late to anything?” a saccharine voice tinged with a morsel of sass chimes in to guide Zero back into the reality of the florist shop. It is successful and he gives the source the full scope of his gaze. 

Fadiya is perhaps as human as human can be, as tender with her flowers as she (mostly) is with her patrons, yet she has never once regarded the proclaimed war machine with any sentiment of hesitancy. No, she is abundantly rosy with grace, thorns protruding for fools worthy of her wrath, as otherwise her composure of “those fancy credentials win no discounts” is a exhilarating breath of fresh air in a metropolis hellbent on doing too much or too little based upon his occupation. No joy is found in expectation of grandeur for a mission’s presumable success and the idea is reckless to begin with, thus he appreciates the florist’s approach with one of her few non-corpulent customers. 

Her eyes, so dark the pupils might bleed into the irises, hold him steady as he offers his what could be a fractal of wisdom, “tardiness is habit that could create errors in performance.” 

“Oh, but _some_ of us like to be late every once in awhile—oh, like sleeping in! Lazy mornings are just the best… have you even had one?” and she is already flitting about her shop, plucking flower stems from the myriad of floral displays with such dainty precision that she appears more finch than human. No, Fadiya is still made of vulnerable sinew and deteriorating muscle, made of microscopic platelets compounded with carbon and hydrogen. She is life that breathes from the soils, a soul that flickers and wanes and glows and still warms over with a click of his vents, yet he is more metals and plastics rather than flesh. Carbons of course are involved in his composition to somedegree, yes, but more from the less malleable section of the periodic table. 

Even while the florist chides him about taking rest days and vacation excursions to the beach, to the high rise mountains, to anywhere but the city ramparted with the high line of sky scrapers that hide them from the world outside, Zero thinks, a little too much acrid grief, how much she reminds him of another flower that wilted far too quick from the hellfire combustion that comes with death’s perilous war drum. 

“… and while you are traipsing in lala land, I have already gotten you this lovely arrangement for yours truly,” Fadiyatunes in with a smile dripping with sugar snark that Zero even has to allow one huff of a chuckle. She showcases the flowers she has chosen this night with the finesse of a presenter, hands splayed out in the air as the Hunter assesses her work. 

Honestly, his proficiency wallows in his efficient analyses of the artillery stores back at Headquarters so for all he knows, this presentation of flowers is just fine, especially considering the rarity of natural flowers in the twenty-second century. It appears pretty enough, the petals gorgeous hues of cyans and lilacs with creams interwoven within the arrangement. Of course, X will love it, claim the gift is impeccable, and Zero will be pleased with his success. 

“You are aware I am unable to provide a true critique if there is any to be given,” Zero reminds with a steadied front, but with a wave of her hand, the florist wipes away any due offense, a buzzing wasp that would threaten to sting her otherwise. 

“I know your partner as well as I know you at this rate—I think he just likes being spoiled which I am more than happy to help you with!” 

The barter proceeds from there, an exchange of zenny for the time and the company, mercifully short but so cordial that the Hunter minds the time spent not one word made between the idle chitchat the florist must pride herself in.Several years ago, the menial pestering of ‘how was today’ or ‘are those weird energy drinks radioactive’ would have sparked a nerve or five in Zero’s patience, but he admits: he is getting quite lenient. 

“Same time next week!” Fadiya promises with a jittery wave as he leaves the shop with flowers in hand, parting from her with a raise of his free arm. Half of his mission is now complete with the arrangement retrieved. 

The second half is far, far more grating upon his circuits. 

The pastry shop is right across the road from Fadiya with decadent breads and cupcakes abound spread across a tasteful window display to entice wanderers right in to take their hard earned money. Even from his location a good twenty feet away, the buttery, fluffy confections are evident in their quality—but the smell is overwhelming alreadyand the woman inside almost makes Zero desire that an emergency alarm would go off right then. 

Vyra is… fearsome, wielding whisk and criticism like armaments as she presses into the fray that is customer service. It is hard to miss how she plays favorites, taut with her basic manners when one of her lesser liked customers dares to show their face in her bakery, and unfortunately for him, he is one of those existences that appear to wish the woman some measure of frustration. 

The war bot, imbibed with weapons emphatically capable of global catastrophe at least three times over, may begrudge to this day whatever he spit out that day X convinced him to investigate the succulent smells of warm baked pastries that brimmed through Blum Heights. Even then, his memory regurgitates that bitter taste of berry and smothering film of butter along his oral sensors and he outright winces. Human sustenance is worthless of an indulgence, even if he does not lack the proper disposal procedures, and Vyra is there with her hands on her hips ready to reprimand him like a toddler with a knife. 

“Is it that time of the week already? You could do me one better if you actually _brought_ that blueberry here instead.” 

Zero could smartly pay her no mind, command her to provide her with a slice of the house special and he would finish the trek back to Base with not a hindrance more. However, if X caught wind of his cold-hearted mannerisms, the war bot is assured that rehabilitation sounds more daunting of an experience than just being courteous for two minutes and forty-nine seconds. 

“I will recommend X that you request his presence and his patronage,” he vents coolly, head tilting to regard all of the trays of goods waiting for purchase between them, “and I am sure he will appreciate your hand in choosing his… food tonight. 

Sighing, Vyra rolls her gray eyes upwards to the warm light of her custom ornate lanterns. “About as stiff as ever. You’d think that sweet thing would have taught you how to try to hold a conversation.” 

Lips thinned, Zero’s head tilts with a bare squint of his optics, the blues near slits as he watches the elder human about her business. Enigma incarnate, Vyra, a masterful baker of heavenly confections that would surely derive envy of any immortal gods the humans fondly worship, is offering some advice? Of some sort? 

Add that to his ever increasing list of reasons to be confused by the more corpulent citizenship of Abel City. 

Still, he proffers a culpable attribution of his character, saying “I have determined I was not created for—frivolities. Some X’s lessons of basic interaction process at an accelerated rate, some require a delay.” 

“Oh, pishposh,” the baker scoffs with a lack of venom along her tone that almost statics a misfire in his calibration. Strange; with the crease her forehead and the softer tone of her retort, her vocals sound barely strained by some sense of remorse or lethargy and he is presented with the enticement to inquire. Zero almost bats the idea around, to present himself as an ear willing to bear the burdensome weights of the world upon his shoulders. 

The crimson android, however, is not so much inclined as a particular azure one would be, far too inexperienced on the whimsical variances of mankind’s emotional outputs. Though, he has to admit, that he has at least learned one of the greatest offerings of condolences is to be mindfully silent until prompted to speak. 

“Here ya go: a cruller, slice of cheesecake, and his favorite triple berry muffin. All on the house.” 

That in essence flat lines his cognitive receptors and Zero feels a sharp tingle icily trail down his back as he regards the defenseless old woman with suspicion. Before he can even inch his mouth open to ask if she has a screw or nine loose, Vyra raises a hand after wiping it along her flour-caked apron. “Thank ol’ reliable in the back; poor ‘loid is always insistent I am a little too harsh on you. Can you blame me though?” 

At the mention, Vyra’s assistant slips out from behind the curtain that veils the ovens and fryers from the front, waving kindly as he always does. “Hello, Mr. Zero.” 

“Hello, Levain,” he returns with a tilt of his chin and a quirk of his lips. The act does not disappoint as the cherry dusting of a blush glows along Levain’s nose while he bashfully glances off to the side while the sound of vents kicks up amongst the radio’s warbling croon. 

If anything, Zero enjoys seeing how his actions influence others, especially those that have shown some interest that goes a bit beyond the stance of acquaintance. X would nudge him, whisper to him that he is a horrible boyfriend for flirting with another right in front of him, but the pure weapon of war knows where his adorations lie. 

Levain, after all, possesses not a semblance of a weapon or a defense mechanism, entirely blank-slated of any battle aspect that would rouse within the Hunter any need to chase for his attention. Falling into the category of his threat assessors being even unable to categorize the baking reploid into any level, Zero concludes that Levain is light-years from being worthy of Zero’s compatible type, duly noted as being unable to hand his ass right over to him. Yet, a small flirt here and there procures for him pastries for gratis. 

It works out as efficiently as Zero likes. 

“I hope Mister X likes them! Tell him I am still working on that reploid-only cake; it just is taking me a bit longer than… I had hoped.” 

“I will inform him; he will be pleased to hear of your progress, Levain.” 

And again, his words with just a tinge of scarlet-hued charm warms those cheeks even further. Perhaps it could be chalked up to a matter of manipulation as Zero is far too well known for, but he has to admit that the blushes some reploids took after X looks far lovelier on the original. 

And, well, a flush is sign of another victory in his infinite quest to leave X rosy cheeked and utterly speechless at his careful volitions whether be it by mouth or by touch. 

As her true nature entitles her, Vyra breaks their affable conveyance with one of her huffs, shoulders coiling to and fro to alleviate the arthritis of her joints, “go on now so my help quits making doe-eyes at you. Go on!” 

The half-hearted rebuke undulates in tepid air of the bakery, and Levain utters a quick goodbye before he is gone with a flutter of the curtain to return to his post. Zero gazes at the reploid’s back until he nods his wordless gratitude to Vyra and promptly shoos himself out of her impeccably homey establishment with a sway of his gold and a chime of bells. 

Outside, he checks his internal clock: 19:45. More than enough time to carry his treasures back to Headquarters and bask in another mission executed without one damn hitch to make him a second too late. 

Even more fascinating is that excursion towards the sky scraping monolith of MHHQ is somehow abysmally and gratingly boring. While, yes, this indeed quantifies more perks than disadvantages, his threat signals always seem to lull in anxious timbre when whatever this city calls calm reigns forth. Sure, there is the usual disturbances, usually a random yell from night walkers already too inebriated for their own withstanding alcohol tolerances or the incessant honks of taxi hovers fantasizing that their erratic sounds would surely rupture traffic forth through the plethora of roadway tunnels. Yet, these times are truly most certainly some gift horse that merely crackles to life the amber threads of his panic mode and boils forth the thrumming scream of a million wasps stinging about his head. The pulsating craze nearly draws a hand up to cup his head to abate and to push back that siren’s call of putrid attack—. 

_X will grin, beauteous and resplendent and lambent, his eyes alight with the_ _starshine_ _glittering through those green optics while, lo, silver cascades through the window of the seventeenth floor. He will care for the flowers, keep them watered then dry them as he has done with so many before, and partake each pastry like a morsel of ambrosia given by the_ _epitome_ _of a steel-made Apollo._

And with an inhale of ozone and nipped air, he harbors the buzz of wasp wings down into some plum tar and steps right on towards what home a barracks and Command Center and armory can be. He does have an appointment to keep and tardiness lacks expedience. 

— 

A lofty pedal of piano notes lazily drift about the corridor of the seventeenth floor, a tell all elaboration of a musical genius that results in Chopin's “Berceuse in D-Flat” when Zero initiates an internal search. Ah, it is one of those nights, almost as though what lies ahead under the luminous yet cold white light is an anticipation of a romantic imagination. 

Standard issue rooms were the norm for the Hunters, chilly and drab and sparsely decorated as expected from a military style organization. As expected then, Unit leaders received fair sized accommodations outfitted with some nuances of luxury such as a personal charging pod, a desk, and the ever envied window view of the cityscape. 

Even more expected is how X flared into his room personal design choices that are nothing short of eclectic. From hanging ferns to the botched together record player to the bookshelf brimming with topics of regency fiction to electric engineering for beginners, the room is just—well, X’s. The azure android is meticulous as he is sporadic, like head banging rock and roll meeting the finery of classical Mozart and Bach though it seems to be Chopin’s night to shine, and it works, works too well. Zero quietly makes sure to leave out the mass of figurines and action figures dotted about the apartment for an extra bit of self-service, but it never quite behooves him when he sees another three or five added to the collections. 

Like clockwork, he walks into the apartment unhindered at 2000 hours, not even knocking in some semblance to notice his presence because, really, the Blue Bomber knows him as well as his own knuckles. 

“Right on time, darling,” and X smiles lazy, a quirk of the corner of his mouth as he raises his head from his book and unfolding his legs from where he sits on his hand-me-down couch. Zero has yet to ask how the thing even got stuffed into the confines of this room as its dimensions are quite, well, much, but he holds his tongue and just appreciates the plush seating offered by one particular Father of All Reploids. Silly as it may sound, even he prefers to sit on something soft. 

“Vyra has sent you a message stating that you need to enter her bakery personally soon,” Zero states, his vocals so matter of fact that it draws yet another one of those infernal smiles from his lover’s lips while properly greeting him with a chaste kiss to the cheek. 

“Uh huh. I’m sure you appreciated that. Here, let me take those.” 

A hum reverberates of dawn light and bird song, and X takes ahold of the pastry box before gasping when he fully beholds the arrangement Fadiya so effortlessly cared to create from stems of flora galore. 

“Oh, Z… they’re beautiful,” and awe drips in wisteria tendrils upon X’s voice, each syllable twisted up in curlicue vines as he carries the flowers throughout his living space to abruptly play the role of makeshift interior designer, “and mean so much…” 

Ah, yes—flowers have a language of symbolism Zero has never downloaded into his memory banks. X has told him, referenced some old tome that he read by chance years ago, pointing about to the flowers as they come across them in their lives and defining their roles within the natural world. Of course, unknown to his partner, the war machine finds that such information clogs his more necessary files so the data is either archived or deleted. Nonetheless, that does not mean he will not at least asking about it. “What do these flowers mean?” 

Humming another soft tune that the war bot cannot seem to recognize from his files, X nearly disregards him as he holds the bouquet up to table and shelf alike to decide where the beauty of each leaf and petal would flourish best. Then, he smiles, elated with the discovery of the perfect spot for the flowers before heading to find a vase purchased just for these nights. 

“Well, let’s start with the greenery—there is myrtle here which is… peculiar, but I think I get it. It has a lot of relations to the Greek and Romans—.” 

“X,” Zero interrupts with a cross of his arms and a frown that might almost be considered a pout, a habit he picked up right from the other one when it reveled upon him how effective the look was. While it was always a whirlwind of thoughts and details that would sputter from X’s pretty mouth whenever prompted, he finds himself a bit more persevering when not nearing the optimal curfew for shut down. 

A roll of greens as lush as those myrtle leaves and X shakes his head with a little sharp exhale, “unless it’s a big Spartan battle aspect, you find it unappealing to hear about, do you? And here I thought you might want to know.” 

“I do,” he reminds with a step or two closer, pressing his nose against the nape of his lover’s neck to lay a kiss right there, “but I find that your history lessons are elongated explanations. I prefer a summary, blue bird.” 

The azure Hunter’s shoulders twitch at the kiss—a small consolation over minor infraction Zero may have smarted into the other’s very soul. It seems to heal over any whelps left over by a sharp whip of an offense as X’s expression melts into a demure glance that might increase the other’s ventilation output, “here’s a summary for you: it wasthought to be an aphrodisiac at one point by some humans.” 

Oh. _Oh._

“The florist does not seem to be aware that I lack all of the same hormonal composition that plagues humanity.” 

“And I doubt she meant it that way; myrtle has other meanings, such as marriage by some religious sects and chastity by others—.” 

“X.” 

“Sorry, sorry… If you can’t figure out how to take out an entire squadron with it, it’s hard for you to keep the information, yes?” and with a chuckle, the Blue Bomber kisses his jaw before turning on the water faucet to fill up the vase, “I will at least give you the shorthand version of the rest of the arrangement’s floriography.” 

Perhaps he is being too cruel to his lover, this same android who exudes some semblance of warmth that only humans could provide, some curiosity of the world that pads along the currents of life’s never-ending tide. Really, Zero is perfectly aware that X sacrifices so many facets of his desires to placate and to accommodate the people around them, allowing society to beat down his ambitions into a form less hopeful as the days pass. It feels wrong to hope this all is some chrysalis, some maturation that blooms a calm anew in the pulse beat of al of X’s dreams. 

Yet, the Hunter ponders upon Fadiya and her fountains of charm bubbling forth from marble spires a kindness that is a rare gem unearthed in a world so crude and dark. Then, his thoughts swim through data streams to Vyra and her postured haughtiness, but also to her gesture of permitting her good to leave the shop with no exchange of funds at Levain’s behest. 

All he knows is war, of gunpowder blast and fire spark that whiffs of sure oxidation as smoke billows like crow wings into a macabre sky. All he knows is conflict, the bite of metal scrapping against metal, the shift of stance and the high him of his modules snapping into a combat state of mind. All he knows is to be a weapon, to eviscerate, to demolish, to annihilate. 

Here in this room, here with the flowers and the books and the pictures, there is a safe haven, some sanctuary kept tucked away from prying eyes so he can allow X to just be X. Combat systems be damned, he could at least attempt to salvage each detail that X murmurs into the space of their reality because one day? It may very well be dust between his fingers. 

“Forgive me,” is a self-admonishment in the grievous act of hoping X will forgive him when the minute comes hisever-winding patience finally runs thin, “relay their meanings. The florist always assembles a new… way of speaking this ‘flower language’ so it may be crucial for me to be aware.” 

And a chuckle greets him, tinkling wind chime on a summer breeze, and it might dawn upon him that he is falling in love all over again. 

“Because she wants to make sure you always say how you feel without speaking. Apparently, she has a good perception on how to woo me, but that’s just the way, isn’t it?” sighs X, his shoulders a wistful line that droops down as he smiles at the flowers, fingers just barely grazing over. 

“So, I already relayed on myrtle, but the rest can be stated simply: ivy is faithfulness, violets are everlasting love, and these little white flowers are baby’s breath—or well this is the stardust gypsophila variant—stands for so much: innocence, romance…” 

A hitch of ventilation motors and a stirring of cognitive data collections prompts Zero to nod, “so Miss Fadiya has conducted her usual procedure in implementing her knowledge and skills to combine flowers that convey my feelings as I lack precision in words. That is, to your preference, as expected.” 

At that, X laughs, free and exuberant to the point he shakes with it, nodding his head from the sheer unadulterated comment his crimson-clad lover has made. He seems to be overwrought with it, and if not for how angelic that laughter is, Zero would allow an ounce of worry, but there is nothing that is pinging wrong in his aural cones. X is happy, truly happy from how the decibels seem to flutter about. 

“I guess that’s the case… if you’re all about innocent love or marital bliss for me, but I would wager my whole year’s salary it might be a bit less your style when it comes to how you feel for me.” 

“’My style?’” echoes back and the question lingers along the stagnant air of the Seventeenth Unit Leader’s quarters until said leader grasps it right down with a grin that is all teeth. 

“Oh, yeah, your style. It isn’t innocent or pure by any means, but it’s yours. It’s warm and steady and understands me when nobody else on this whole crazy world does,” so with that, X sets the vase with his newest arrangement down on the makeshift coffee table, padding back towards wherever he left the box of pastries prior. “Want a bite?” 

“Hell, no,” comes so abrupt, so eager to deny that overly-sugared attempt at food that the humans (and X) crave and hoard and fuss over, X just playfully rolls his eyes once more while his teeth sink into a cruller. The little grunt of appeasement adds points on Zero’s docket and it draws him in like a cocky little moth to blue flame as he leans to kiss at the ruby gem atop his lover’s helmet. 

And the evening passes on placid after, small talk abating soft exchanges of kisses whilst gratitude is mutteredagainst thin lips. The buttery sugar lingers slightly bitter along Zero’s mouth, nearly erupting a grimace along his features until X grins and remarks upon how handsome he is when swallowing down his pride and suddenly the taste is not as horrible as previously determined. No, though, it is all X, wholly his own fascinatingly unique self whosmells of violets and tastes of sweet breads, the same that sits pretty on the prize box for a mission well accomplished. He will suffer for just a moment or two with the overly doting affections of flowers and those vile crullers if it means X will always and forever gaze at him as though he strung up the moon just for him. 

“Dear, are you _sure_ you don’t want a bite?” 

“I am certain my response of ‘hell, no’ sufficiently dictated my lack of initiative to want a bite.” 

“Your loss.” And then a coy wink and cute smile is gifted his way, then the crimson Hunter interrupts X all over with a sly smirk and another round of kissing as though seduced to do so by the titillating crescendo of Chopin's waltzing melody. 


End file.
